


Six Finger

by RomanDiget



Category: Darkover Series - Marion Zimmer Bradley
Genre: Aliens, Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, Science Fiction, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:14:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomanDiget/pseuds/RomanDiget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>done for a prompt on Y-Gallery: Dyan Ardais has temporerally escaped his chaperones from Nevarsin monastery. Desperate to escape the stiffeling atmosphere he braves the Ghost Wind in hopes he can be ruined for the monk's purpose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Finger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dharmagunn](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Dharmagunn).



> World Wreckers was one of the first Sci-Fy novels I ever read. Marrion motivated me to write and dream of new worlds I hope this does her credit. This is a gift for Darmagunn on y-gallery and tumbler an amazing writer in her own right.

The Bloody Sun sank behind the Hellers in a sky unusually free of mist, rain, or snow. Not quite midsummer, watching the third moon take its place in the sky Dyan wondered if tonight would free him. His father had pledged him to the monastery at Nevarsin and for five years he had lived with the gentle monks in their cells carved out of living ice. Once he was 14, duty to Caste required him to enter the cadets and perform military service or he could take vows and turn his back on the world altogether.  
Lord Ardais was now safely in his tomb and Dyan had no desire to be either monk or priest. The funeral had given him an excuse to come home and the weather might lend him means to end his exile. To that end he had evaded his bodyguards and servants.   
A warm wind was rising over the mountains. Good and prudent folk were hanging wet cloth over every door and window, cowering under roof for fear of the Ghost Wind. Less prudent folk, read minus a pedigree would abandon cot and croft as the Wind took them.   
Dyan was not minded to leave it to chance. Only one deed would bar him from Nevarsin. Abhorrence of men lying together had been the very foundation of Saint Valentine’s ministry. That and the Christiforo’s loathing of all non-human races sharing their world; it was foundation for a scheme to keep him warmer if not in fact free.   
The stories said the Chieri were moved to love by pity. It went against the grain to humble himself since pride was all he owned in the world. However, if he had to spend another winter among the Christiforo, it was possible he would slit the abbot’s throat and drink his blood for broth.   
I could not help being angry. My Dam had taught me how to dance in this meadow. It had been centuries since I passed this way but the meadow persisted and the Moons danced overhead. Squatting on my mother’s altar to Avara was a human, full of bloody and violent imaginings. My race has not been moved by rage since our sun was hot and bold. That does not mean we are absent the feeling.   
I felt near to murder right now. Something in this youth quickened my blood. He sat playing his harp, with sad and lonely tunes that lied most foul. He was angry and stifled, hemmed in, restricted, and chaffing. It made my head hurt as the mental chatter of this race always did. Under this wash of base emotion was a slender thread of longing.  
Because I am stubborn, passionate, and not wise, I lingered. I sent my pets the Trail-brothers to watch the path and keep away any intruders. He wanted to be free, he wanted to be sullied by lust; this could be arranged.   
Even in the moonlight I saw he had the fiery mane of the Comyn, they bore a portion of our blood though they had forgotten it was so. Drawing closer I saw he was not unlovely. Pale eyed, he was tall, his jaw and breast still free of the beast fur they sported in later life. His skin was surprisingly dark, a golden amber rich as honey. Limbs were long and slender, the harp in his hands rippled chords he should not have been able to manage. I saw then he had six fingers to each hand, proving we were closer in blood than I had first thought.   
While his mind did seethe with resentment, the thoughts were surprisingly well ordered and clear, enough for me to reach him as I would one of my own kind.   
*You trespass*  
His eyes found me in the gloom instantly, widening as I trod the Kirthese flowers under foot. I meant to frighten him and I succeeded. They are a primitive race seeping grease and phlegm constantly. Yes, he was somewhat cleaner than is common but did I really care?   
The pollen disturbed by my feet swirled upward in lazy veils. The breeze was gentle yet. It took at least three dry days to conjure a Ghost Wind but for his purpose my steps were enough. Kirthese is the Star flower, its pollen psycho-active. As it lighted on his flesh it was absorbed by the skin and racing through his blood in moments. Pupils blown wide, he saw me as I am for the first time.   
We are none of us the flesh we wear, not me, and not him. The Pollen raced in my blood too. I saw with better clarity. His beginnings were mean, conceived on a woman that did not know her own power. He was nurtured in her womb on resentment and scheming. Her anticipated victory was short lived. Bearing the heir that was supposed to free her, she lost her life. He was handed from nurse, to nanny, to tutor, to the stunted souls at Nevarsin.   
One, and all powerless, and at the mercy of those higher. He was to be a Lord, to lead, to husband his race, and all he knew was that submission was not how that was done. I felt no pity, we had taught his ancestors better. It was tragic.   
I took his face between my hands and kissed him. If he thought his flesh was a thing to be used for another’s pleasure, I could only try to teach him to be generous himself.   
The mouth under me stuttered and convulsed. I held him trapped, while I had my way. He didn’t relax so much as pause to take stock. He began to respond, slowly and that was fine. Sex is a dance; you can abandon yourself to the music and enjoy it thoroughly. If you want to please another, you need teaching, and practice. I could teach. he would have to practice on his own.   
My laran is strong. I’ve been trained in the use of my gift, in the converse of one mind with another. The strength of the Chieri’s challenge was shocking just the same. It was angry and for a moment I feared for my life.   
The kiss was more shocking yet. I had been kissed before, the monks wrath was an impediment not an obstacle, but we were children, imitating what we had seen or heard without understanding. This was the real thing. The Chieri took my mouth and made me submit. He, she, it, was not interested in my fumbling. The power of the hands on me were no joke either. Everyone talks about how beautiful and delicate they are; no one mentions that they can break a man in half.   
My feet finally touched the ground again. Mist coloured eyes bored into mine. I was being given a chance to flee. I gave it thought, but I had come for this. I would not turn form it now.   
That did not mean I was unafraid, stepping into his arms, my forehead rested on the bare chest.   
*you are no coward* Mind to mind can not lie, or so they say. I would guess he can read my thought like a printed page. That he judged me by my actions rather than my gibbering brain was some relief.   
The long fingered hands plucked me bare. He wore a flowing garment under the thick fall of silver hair, woven with flowers and star-stone beads. The hair was the more substantial of the two. Shrugging his hair back, the robe settled on the turf round us. Hands on my shoulders pressed me down, taking the hint I knelt before him.  
Definitely him. Chieri are inhumanely tall and slim, what confronted me was of a piece with the rest. I wasn’t afraid. I just didn’t know how I was going to manage.   
One hand fisted in my hair. The other stroked my face. Urged thus, lips parted and the pale crown slipped inside me. I wasn’t just curious about this.   
My hands rested on his thighs, my mouth closed around him. The lesson was learned. I let him direct me, while trying to absorb every sensation. The taste was sugary and somehow herbal, it was flesh true and as the blood under his skin began to pound I tasted that a little more. His hips set a shallow rhythm.  
I wanted, I wanted more, undoubtedly he could sense my thought because the strokes became longer. The crown reached the back of my mouth, the sudden convulsion was painful. Somehow I felt both soothed and challenged. Both hands were in my hair now and his strokes were becoming longer.   
Discomfort did not seem to matter, my throat was battered on every stoke, and he was gaining ground. One hand slipped under my jaw caressing my neck, fingers checking his progress. He stepped back while dragging me forward by my hair. The move lengthened and elongated my neck, almost immediately he was three inches deeper. The in and out was over, the Chieri’s cock was ruthlessly wedging its way deeper inside. Trying to breathe became my only concern and somehow I managed that.   
The shaft pulsed, thickened, and shuddered. I’m not such a virgin as to be ignorant of that. I kept breathing and he moaned beautifully above me. I know better but I felt a little proud I could give him this. All the skill was his, me just a vessel and somehow I felt happy about it. He softened a little before withdrawing, as deeply as he had been wedge inside me, my throat would have been shredded if he pulled out right away.   
The Chieri knelt down beside me, taking my mouth under his again. I was startled, after spewing, he wanted to kiss me? The flavour of his seed filled my mouth. I was so full I could smell his seed wafting from my pores.  
The kiss was different, before it was his mouth on mine; teaching me to follow instead of wallow. This time his tongue was in my mouth, tasting me, tasting himself I imagined, coaxing me to explore. His mouth was spicy, earthy, and hot like peppers.   
Three of Darkover’s seven moons danced on a veil of stars. It was not only the Kirthese pollen dancing on the breeze. Dark looming evergreens shivered streamers of silver dust. Life and love flexed and throbbed in dark shadow.  
The boy was pinned under me, still and compliant as yet. Under that passive facade his schemes still roiled. We are few; living ancient lives and slow to passion. But he stirred me, I counted us both lucky what he wanted could not result in a child.   
Surprisingly ignorant of what he sought, the rutting of hounds and chervine was foremost in his mind. Well, let us begin there. His mouth was awash with my seed. Dipping two fingers there I teased his tongue a minute or was it longer before moving that slickness to his centre.   
He grunted under my kiss as I breached him. Gentleness had no part in this. Thighs clamped on my wrist trying to control the movement. My free hand was tangled in his hair, shifting my weight I pinned him to the earth by those curls while my knee wedged his legs open.  
Teeth found the pale gold skin of his throat terrifying him into stillness. Dyan writhed under my hands, pain flashing along nerve channels visible under the pollen’s trance. A dim echo of that pain pulsed in my mind inflaming me to greater effort. I would teach this brat to come seeking what he did not understand.   
Chain a dragon to your hearth fire and you have only yourself to blame. Fingers twisting inside his soft, wet, heat, this was just a taste of what was coming. I rolled him over and dragged his hips upward to meet me. No hesitation was warranted, piercing him tore a wail from this child of men. It echoed in the night.   
His body quivered under me while his innards clenched around my shaft. Years since I had performed this act had dimmed my memory. My knee forced his thighs wider and hips lower perfecting the angle of my thrust. Skin dimpled under the strength of my grip, inflaming me more. Long stuttering thrusts owed more to the way his insides gripped my length than any kindness on my part.   
I would have all of him there was to take. He had stolen my brief moment of reverie and would pay for that satisfying my hunger and lust. His grip loosened and our hips gathered speed and force. He rocked back to meet me and the sensation was exquisite.   
Surrender was swift, but not enough. I changed the thrust, short, slow, shallow, withdrawing totally only long enough for his body to relax and then forcing his gate again. He wept and swore, craving to be filled, begging me not to leave him empty.   
The Chiere was murdering me. At first he was tearing me apart. I could feel my flesh being shredded. Once he had carved out a home for himself in my body the sensation changed. An aching hollowness lived in my belly where he had been. Every thrust made me feel complete and every withdrawal left me empty and broken.   
A long fingered hand tangled in my hair bowing my spine. Lights exploded behind eyelids, he was deep inside, lurking and carving out my entrails. My knees where forced aside while he reeled me in. Impossibly he sank deeper inside. The hand in my hair pulled me up until his nipples were scoring my shoulder blades. Head dangling over his shoulder, neck bare to his teeth, and hips slamming into me; short, sharp jolts that rocketed up my spine, wringing words and bestial sounds from my mouth.   
The glimmering pulsing lights around us flared, traceries merged into veils and the Chiere’s flesh quaked, my own flesh ignited in answer. Light bloomed and echoed through my mind burning like cling-fire.   
Sleepy bird calls echoed between the trees. The crude granite block pressed an thousand micro blades against my skin. The lavender moon was just setting as the night gave was to grey light. The puddle of slime under my belly bound me to the stone enough for further discomfort as I levered myself upward.  
My clothing lay tangled in the grass. Of the Chiere there was no sign except the stickiness dribbling down the inside of my thighs and a faint spiciness on the tongue.   
There was no mirror here to check the damage but I was sure the signs were plain to any eye. More importantly my laran channels told the full story. The small dormant nodes of sexual energy were activated and pulsing. Nothing short of a special trained Leronise could reverse that and it was a crime in this day and age to perform such surgery.   
Good bye Nevarsin!


End file.
